writings

to organize & yell into the void?

[doveyrin]

Alas

Eleven froze; dusky, tortured, a trembling star. Her hostile edges unfurl at the savory of your name. Endlessly, she defaces herself. From ocean, piercing whispers. From hillside, acrid wails. Suspended she mourns and yet, Purity escapes her.

alas: she burns. Bluely, cruelly— Eleven splits herself asunder!

[doveyrin]

Scum’s First World Problems

From up ahead, they looked like dollhouses. Alike in blocky form and detached roofs, the homes of Grand Rhode sat eerily still— blissfully unaware of the mayhem surrounding them; distressed mattresses, wooden floorboards, and doors ripped from hinges. Hurricane Leda struck the neighborhood in 2021, resulting in 13 deaths and catastrophic water damage. I was 16, a volunteer. My job was menial— hand out flyers and let people know that food was on the way. 

Flyers, food. 

Flyers, food. 

Flyers, fo- the first guy opens his door. He looks hispanic; there are bloodied cuts along his shins, and his clothing is wrinkled. He gestures to his children and hispanic neighbors, and they all give my stack of paper hopeful stares. They think it’s aid— like insurance or directions on how to recover lost property. Instead, it was a picture of the smiling congresswoman I volunteer for and a request for their vote. I clench my teeth and fashion a smile. It’s fraudulent like me.

[doveyrin]

Audience

when no one is watching,

my infinite selves collapse

and I am exposed

[doveyrin]

You’re dead meat

I have your eyes, the same hardened ones full of loathing and despair. I have your cracked lips, bitten, half-starved, and unable to feed ourselves because we do not know how to eat. I have your heavy arms, the ones that encircled children and suffocated youths. And I’m learning, to hate the way you hate. You swore you felt God’s warmth once. For a blip, we were alive. Then, just as quick, it was gone and so were you—

smog and hatred in your wakes.

[doveyrin]

Punctuation is a concept

I miss everything you were not. Smashed plates, broken furniture, the thick of hate. Sometimes, lies blur into half truths and— your identity penetrates mine. Was it my weakness or your grief? Your tenderness or my fear? Maybe there was no violence. Maybe there was no